


The Effect of Pickles and Vodka on Workplace Relations

by AvaKelly



Series: Bits and Pieces [30]
Category: Marvel
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Clint being Clint, M/M, Panic Attack, Steve being Steve, misplaced pics, missent pics, unfortunately dick pics but freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-26
Updated: 2019-04-26
Packaged: 2020-02-07 03:26:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18612163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AvaKelly/pseuds/AvaKelly
Summary: Inspired bythis post.Clint and Steve make mistakes.





	The Effect of Pickles and Vodka on Workplace Relations

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to the Bad Decision Buddies for the motivation! And to Hraf for originally pointing me toward this prompt. I don't remember what we originally discussed, but here is the fic, two years later.  
> Not beta'd. Please let me know if there are tags that need adding.  
> Enjoy~

Clint's in trouble. He's been at this job for only four months and he's already being summoned to the boss' office for the dreaded _talk._ Each step he takes feels like another notch on his failure belt of failures. He might whimper, although he really hopes nobody's heard him. Around the large open space, the staff of the small magazine buzzes with life.

Clint takes a deep, trembling breath, wondering where it all went wrong.

Actually, he knows where it all started. Two days ago, Wednesday evening to be exact, at the celebration. They'd landed a huge interview, on top of obtaining a free photoshoot by one of the popular photographers at the moment. Clint disagrees with that statement, but only because he's known Bucky since forever and Bucky hates the fame. Besides, he owes Clint more than one favor, so here they are. Boss has been over the moon, uncharacteristically hugging everyone left and right.

That, indeed, included Clint several times, which is why—

Clint shudders.

Which is why, after consuming a reasonable amount of alcohol at the workplace party, he went home and called Nat over with some of her homebrewed vodka. Between her and Bucky and Clint, they'd eaten two jars of pickles and drank a liter of fire before they started daring each other to do things.

It's how Clint woke up yesterday, a headache the size of Texas and phone full of dick pics. Some were his.

And then, to top it all, he discovered where one of those went.

Directly to his boss.

The most awesome dude in the entire city, a guy Clint's been crushing on since he got hired, but one Clint had put away from his mind because, one, he's the boss, and two, Clint doesn't stand a chance. He's been let go so many times, his resume looks like swiss cheese, while Steve Rogers has been winning journalistic awards left and right as a correspondent before starting his own magazine. He's traveled the world three times over.

Clint didn't even bother to drag his kit in today. No point in lugging his camera only to get fired, he reckoned, after reading the response from Steve asking him to drop by his office, with an ominous "We need to talk" tacked at the end. He was supposed to cover a red carpet event tonight. It's how he managed to avoid coming into work until almost 6PM, a slight headache still lingering at the back of his head.

He knocks as silently as he can on the door, and after a muffled "Enter!" he follows suit.

"Ah, Clint," Steve says as he raises from his chair. "I was expecting you earlier, but since it's late already..."

He shrugs, rummages briefly under his desk, and then sets a bottle of wine on top. Clint wants to ask _what the fuck_ , but his throat is dry. None of his previous bosses had celebratory drinks for firing him before. The cork pops.

"Do you know why I called you in here?" Steve asks.

He bends to retrieve something from his drawer and Clint closes his eyes. This will be the most humiliating thing ever. He swallows, takes a breath.

"Because I accidentally sent you a dick pic."

Something clangs, sounds like glass against glass. Clint dares look and sees Steve frozen, two glasses of that damn wine half full on his desk.

"Accidentally?" Steve's voice is squeaky and his face is as red as the wine.

Clint's mouth opens.

Steve sets the bottle down and leans with his hands onto the wooden surface, head bowed.

Clint's mouth closes.

Steve pinches the bridge of his nose. He's still curled in on himself, not looking at Clint. The silence stretches enough that Clint feels it around his chest, constricting his airways in a vice. Was Steve… was he…

"Clearly," Steve finally says, "I've never been _in_ the game. I know people make fun of me for not having dated a lot. In my defense, I was a little busy." He does straighten then, but his gaze falls on the wall of pictures he has framed from his time overseas.

Clint's mouth opens.

"So please," Steve continues, "know that when I tell you this, I mean it. I'm sorry for assuming, and I hope you don't feel uncomfortable around me from now on. My wishful thinking is mine alone. Okay?"

He looks Clint straight in the eyes, earnest and adorable.

Clint's mouth _should_ close, but instead it blurts, "You can have my dick."

Wide-eyed, brows raised, Steve sounds like he's choking. Aw, no, brain. Not on Clint's… on air! Gah, Clint needs air. Needs it a lot. Because. Black and dark and not enough air.

"Clint!"

~

There are hands on him—softness under his butt—gentle hands that rub at his chest and help the air in—words that whoosh in and out and in and out and that's it, breathe, breathe.

~

Steve brings him a bottle of water and sits next to Clint on the small sofa. His hands are still shaking, but Steve helps him unscrew it, lets him sip for a while.

"So," Steve says and that's when everything rushes back in, in stark clarity.

Clint leans back, finds a spot to watch on the ceiling. "Just so you know, dick pics are not a good way to flirt or express interest. It's beyond rude, especially since the person receiving them hasn't agreed to it."

A frustrated sound fills the room. Clint watches Steve from the corner of his eye as he rubs his hand through his hair, making it stand up. Clint considers his options; the impending loom of unemployment versus the wine glasses on the desk.

He takes a chance.

"I'm not sure if I can," he says, "in good conscience, let you ask me out. Clearly, you need a primer on dating first."

It's Steve's turn to gape like a fish out of water. "Are you kidding me right now?"

"No, I'm teasing you." He knocks his knee to Steve's. "Tease me back."

A few moments pass as Steve processes this, filling Clint with trepidation, but then he smiles. Like an asshole, he does that little smile of his that Clint's been wanting to kiss stupid.

"So that's a yes on the date?"

Despite himself, Clint huffs a laugh. He's starting to feel drained. Exhilarated, yes, but tired. "Yeah," he says.

Steve's smile widens.

That's when Clint registers the display of the clock on the wall. "Aw, crap, the event." He tries to stand, and falls back down. The sudden rush leaves his head pounding, not in a good way.

"Relax, I already sent someone else in your place."

Clint blinks. Wait. Steve's his _boss_. "Am I fired?" He hates how his voice trembles. Great, Barton, really peachy. Sure, he _wants_ to date Steve, but he _needs_ this job.

"Of course not. You're good and I don't care about your quirks, I worked with photographers even more peculiar than you in the past. However, I can't be your superior _and_ "—Steve clears his throat—"you know. It just so happens that I wanted to expand the crew for a while now, and I've hired a new visual editor. You'll be answering to her from now on. If that works for you."

He's watching Clint expectantly. It's just like him to think of everything.

Clint's mouth opens and closes and he licks his lips. "That works," he croaks.

"Good." Steve's arm comes around Clint's shoulders and he pulls Clint against his side. "Rest a bit."

~

It's later, much later, in the relative silence of the office, when Steve whispers, "You scared me."

"Sorry."

"It's okay."

The way Steve's fingers rub gently at his arm, the warmth of him, the tenderness in his voice… Clint _has_ to ruin the moment.

"By the way, that wasn't my dick."

 

~End~

**Author's Note:**

> Since it came up a few times: the dick Clint sent was Bucky's because Clint and Buck and Nat are so close, they are unfazed by nakedness (and Clint and Bucky have a long standing tradition of trading dick pics when they're drunk). Steve has had a professional crush on photographer Bucky Barnes since forever and Bucky did Clint a favor by agreeing to do a shoot for Steve's magazine. Just imagine the absolute embarrassment from Steve, the shrug-attitude from Bucky ("I mean I can show it to you live if it would make you feel better") and the amusement of Nat ("No, maybe Steve should show you his instead") and Clint's mortification ("Can we please stop talking about dicks?")... but he's actually happy because his best friends like his new boyfriend enough to tease him and he's so happy about it all :)


End file.
